


Securis

by lirin



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Ettinsmoor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-02 12:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: Peter awoke in a grassy valley with several cracked ribs, still clutching Edmund's bacon and egg sandwich in his hand.





	Securis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Snacky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snacky/gifts).



Peter really ought to have finished writing this paper before he had gone to bed.

There had been scarcely a page remaining to be written, and he'd thought he could get some sleep and come back to it fresh in the morning. He'd thought he could do all that, _and_  eat a healthy breakfast, _and_ get to his first class without having to run.

One was always more optimistic the night before than one had reason to be. In the cold light of dawn, the typewriter had jammed twice, the one page remaining had turned into two, and the thirty minutes he'd expected it to take had turned into more than an hour.

He could smell food from the next room of their tiny flat; Edmund must be up and making his breakfast. Usually, he didn't get up until after Peter left, as his school didn't start until mid-morning. His day ended sooner, too, since he only worked on weekends, while Peter did his best to devote his afternoons and evenings to holding down a full-time job in addition to uni. Right now, as Peter typed as quickly as he could while trying to avoid jamming the typewriter again, it was hard not to be jealous. He thought he smelled coffee, too. He hoped Edmund had thought to make an entire pot, and he could gulp some down on the way out the door. _Finally, based on these findings, we can conclude..._  No, he should have phrased that differently, but it was too late to go back and change it. He closed his eyes, trying to rearrange the next words into something he was happy with.

"Have you had breakfast yet?"

The words slipped away and his eyes snapped open. He glared at the clock. Ten minutes until he had to leave, fifteen if he ran. "No time." _...can conclude that from the beginning, humanity has..._

The smell of coffee drifted nearer. "Type with one hand and have breakfast with the other," Edmund said. "I'm making toast and eggs and bacon, I'll bring you some."

"No time," Peter called after him, but he took time anyway to take a few gulps of the scalding hot coffee before he resumed typing.

He wasn't terribly happy with the finished result, but the paper wasn't worth enough marks to be worth worrying about, and there certainly wasn't any time to do it over. With scarcely a minute to spare, he bundled the paper into his bag and his coffee cup into the kitchen. Edmund was sitting at the kitchen counter eating the promised eggs and bacon. "Thanks for making breakfast; sorry I don't have time to eat it," Peter said as he pushed past him.

Edmund held out a paper-wrapped bundle. "I made it into a sandwich for you," he said. "I've never tried bacon and eggs in a sandwich, but I imagine it must be edible enough, and better than skipping breakfast for the third time this week."

"I haven't—"

"It's either that or you've had so much free time in the mornings that not only have you made yourself breakfast but you've washed up afterwards, and the day you do that will be the day you have time to start writing your papers earlier than the night before they're due." He pushed the bundle into Peter's hands. "I'd tell you to stop running yourself ragged, but I don't think it would do any good. But at least eat breakfast while you're doing it."

Peter sighed. "Thanks. I won't be home till late; I have to go directly to work after my last class." He hefted his bag higher on his shoulder and opened the front door. "But don't worry, I promise I'll eat lunch. And dinner."

He loped down the two flights of stairs, out into the grey misty morning. He wasn't running as terribly late as he was sometimes; he wouldn't even have to run as long as he walked quickly. He pushed back the wrapper on Edmund's sandwich and took a bite. The toast wasn't as crisp as one would like, but it was still good. He chewed thoughtfully as he hurried on.

He had scarcely reached the street corner before he felt a strange sensation, like a tug deep within his rib cage. It felt rather like when Susan's horn had called them all into Narnia, so many years ago—but that was ridiculous, and hardly something he wanted to imagine. Aslan had told him that all of his visits to Narnia belonged to the past; he couldn't go thinking of Narnia every time he had a bit of indigestion. Perhaps the bacon had gone off, though he would have thought Edmund would have noticed. He took another step. He intended to take many steps more than that, but the pulling grew stronger still, and with it came pain, until the world around him blurred into a haze through which he could discern nothing—not sun, not wind, and certainly not the sturdy macadam road that had so recently been underneath his feet.

The tugging sensation ceased suddenly, but the cloud of pain continued. There was pressure on his cheek: grass, as best he could tell. He must be lying down somewhere outside, then. Eventually—he was never sure how long it was, afterwards—he realized that he had closed his eyes, so he opened them.

He was supine on a grassy hillside. He could see the crest on the hill from where he lay. The sun shone bright in a cloudless sky. It was neither high nor low in the sky, so he judged it to be either mid-morning or mid-afternoon. Below him, the hill spread into a valley abloom with flowers, and splashing water betokened a brook or stream just out of sight. Could this be Narnia? It did not look dissimilar. But Aslan had declared that all Peter's visits to Narnia were over and done, and Peter would not presume to contradict the Great Lion, nor to question his knowledge. But if not Narnia, then where? And if Narnia, then how?

Peter stuck out an elbow to lever himself up into a sitting position, and immediately the haze of pain that he had vaguely noted sprang forth with new vigor. He collapsed once more onto his back, and took stock of his injuries. His ribs ached all over: carefully prodding fingers found that only two or three had the sharp pain that accompanied cracked or broken ribs, but nearly all of them seemed bruised. The prodding also discovered a further injury: something was wrong with his right wrist. Bruised at the least, perhaps broken; he didn't know enough about such injuries to be able to tell which.

He wasn't sure where these injuries could have come from. He had no memory of landing here, but perhaps he had fallen onto this hillside from some height? Never before when he'd traveled between worlds had he been hurt, but something must be different this time. And what else might be different? He reached out with his uninjured arm and, clenching his teeth against the pain, pushed himself to his feet. The first thing he needed to do was reconnoiter.

He made for a small copse of birches at the top of the rise, hoping it would shield him from spying eyes while still allowing him to see at more of a distance than he could down here. Of course, if this was Narnia, even the trees themselves might be a danger, but there had always been many more friendly trees than not, and he thought he might as well risk it. The climb was short, but even the brief exertion winded him. Panting, he leaned against one of the trees and gazed down the valley. The stream, though small enough to be nearly invisible as it flowed past where he stood, broadened considerably as it flowed until it joined a river. And near the place where stream and river met, far in the distance at the mouth of the valley, a small stone fort gleamed in the sunlight.

It had been years since Peter had seen that fort, but he recognized it instantly. The Fortress of Narselm, the most northerly outpost in undisputed Narnian territory, on the south side of the River Shribble looking across at Ettinsmoor. Peter had based his troops there when he had fought the giants in the fourteenth year of his reign. They had also based their operations out of the fort a few years before that, when he and Edmund had ridden north to consult with the citizenry and to reconnoiter the situation with the giants. They had not meant to seek out battle on that expedition, yet battle had presented itself nonetheless, on their ride along the river before they had even reached the fort. Edmund had been drawn forward too far, pursuing one of the giants' leaders. Peter had followed as quickly as he might, and drawn the giant away from Edmund only to find that he had cut himself off from his troops as well. So many years later, Peter still remembered the helpless feeling as the giant's axe descended inexorably towards him. But he did not remember what happened afterwards. He only knew that somehow, he had survived, and so had Edmund, but neither had ever been quite sure how.

The valley and the fort appeared much as Peter remembered them, so far as he could see at this distance. It was rather surprising; he would have expected everything to be more overgrown after the centuries—or would it be millennia, by now?—that must have passed in the six years since he had last set foot in Narnia.

But little matter, for it _was_ Narnia! He was here in the place he had most longed for, and had thought never to see again. Joy and thankfulness warred with continued confusion, for surely Aslan had not intended for him to return?

There was nothing to be done about it now, in any case. If he met Aslan, he would ask him; and if he did not, then, well, perhaps the answer would present itself eventually. Regardless, what he needed now was to press forward and find his way to somewhere he could find warmth for the night and more food than half of a (now rather mangled) egg and bacon sandwich. The fort seemed the best choice for both of those. If it brought answers as well, all the better. And if it was no longer under Narnian control, here in this unknown time—well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it, for there was nothing he could do about that now, except to stay out of sight as best he could as he made his way forward, and to hope that Aslan would not let him perish so easily.

 

If his progress down the valley was slow, that was more due to the aching in his ribs than it was to the distraction of the smells and colors of Narnia and its admittedly beautiful fauna. Peter climbed to the base of the hill and followed the stream, hoping that the increased amount of vegetation about its banks would hide him from prying eyes better than the clear grassy sides of the valley. Of course it would be the first place someone would look if they were expecting an incursion, but Peter hoped that the quietness of the day and the lack of anyone in view betokened the calm of peace (rather than the ephemeral stillness before a storm of battle) and that he might yet escape anyone's notice. Of course it could be that the fort was not manned at all, but that was a worry for a later time. He pressed his injured arm tighter to his torso and carried on.

 

The sun was quite low in the sky by the time he reached Narselm. He saw no one about, either on the ramparts or at the doors; but there was a smoke in the sky from campfires, so there were likely troops based on the far side of the fort. They had done much the same, he recollected, on their first journey here. After the attack en route by the giants, they had made straight for the fort and camped all their troops outside it on the north side in clear view of the giants, as a show of strength. They had kept the doors of the fort open for easy retreat and posted all their scouts to watch for any sign of movement on the other side of the river, but the giants had stayed away. Perhaps this was a similar situation. And if similar enough, perhaps this south side of the fort would manage to be both unwatched and open enough that Peter might gain entry. He would rather not claim entry as the High King if it were possible to just slip inside and reconnoiter first; and if the fort was still Narnian, they would likely be watching for attackers several sizes bigger than him, while a mere Son of Adam might escape notice.

Sure enough, he found a kitchen door through which he could gain entrance. He heard voices at the far end of the kitchen, but saw no one. Being in Narnia had brought back memories of how to step softly and attract little notice, and whether it was that or mere luck, he gained the stairs without being observed.

The upper level of the fort was similarly empty; everyone must be down in the camp against the north wall—or perhaps off somewhere, fighting giants. Or fighting Narnians, he supposed, if this fort no longer held its previous alignment—thought it was too small a fort to be much use to giants, and who else would be so far north? Peter vaguely imagined an uprising of Marsh-wiggles before dismissing the notion as ridiculous. If only he knew when he was. A great deal could happen in a millennium. Though it seemed likely that less time than that had passed, for would not even such a small stream as the one he had followed here cut a new course over time? He knew too little of geology to predict with any certainty, but if he'd had to guess, he would have said less than two centuries at most had passed since he last trod this part of the country. Except, no, that was impossible—for he had not been here in the north since the Golden Age, and even if no time had passed since his last visit and Caspian was still king, it would still be more than a thousand years that had passed since then. So his calculations must be wrong.

He wandered the corridors of the fort as he mused, but found no clues as to the year nor the current political situation. The walls were bare of aught but tapestries, and though Peter gazed carefully at each tapestry that he passed, none portrayed a recognizable scene, but simply portraits of various Narnian creatures. In hindsight, he wished he had passed down an edict on decorating with calendars or something.

There were footsteps on the stairs behind him. Peter was still wearing his English clothes, rather the worse for wear; he wouldn't pass for Narnian for one moment. Should he identify himself as the High King and command whoever it was to tell him the year? The idea was considered and discarded in an instant—too many ways it could go wrong. Instead, he seized the handle of the nearest door and slipped inside. With any luck, the room would be as deserted as much of the fort seemed to be. The sudden movement caused his ribs to start complaining again, and he leaned his forehead against the inside of the door, panting.

"Peter?"

Apparently, the room wasn't deserted. Too exhausted to move quickly, Peter stayed where he was and wondered what to say.

"Peter, you yet live! We have had half the company out seeking you, and the other half begging to be sent as well! You were nowhere to be found; it was almost as if you had vanished! Whatever happened?"

Peter turned slowly, blinking. It was Edmund, looking almost the same as he had last night over dinner, and yet not quite. He was standing beside a writing desk covered in papers, as if he had just risen when Peter entered the room; and he was clad in Narnian armor. Edmund might, Peter supposed, have fallen through at the same time that he had, and simply reached the castle and obtained a change of attire before Peter could; yet he felt certain that was not the case. "Why were you looking for me? Where did I disappear from?"

"Remember you not the giant and his axe? He was the largest of them all, with two heads, both of them glaring and snarling at us. I pursued him—too quickly, for the rest of the troops fell behind. You followed after me and drew him off. For a moment, I thought you had him, but then he brought the axe down and I saw your shield shiver beneath it. I rode forward as fast as I might, and so did many other brave Narnians, but you were nowhere to be found, dead or alive. The centaurs charged the giant, all together, and slew him in the shallows of the river. We searched then for hours, upstream and downstream, but found naught. I was uncertain whether to hope that we found you, for perhaps you might still live and we could assuage your wounds; or to hope that you were nowhere to be found, for by Aslan's grace, it might be that some magic had acted upon you, and you might yet live. And that, unless my eyes deceive me, must be what has befallen. You're—you're dressed very strangely."

"You don't remember clothes like these?" Peter asked.

"I think not, unless—perhaps I dreamed of something like, long ago. They're quite plain, and oddly fashioned. Certainly not something I have heard of anywhere in Narnia. From somewhere over the Eastern Sea?"

"Not quite," Peter said. "I'll explain in a minute. Next question. What year is it?" By this point, he suspected he knew the answer, as strange as it all seemed to imagine.

"Why, 'tis the tenth year of our reign, brother," Edmund replied. "Are you—are you quite all right?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure yet. This is going to take some explaining." He stepped closer, but immediately regretted leaving the support of the wall. The room was bare of chairs beyond the one that Edmund stood beside, so Peter took a seat on the desk. His ribs ached from even that brief movement. He needed rest, in a bed. He hoped that Edmund would believe him at once, despite the strange story he was about to tell, for he didn't have the strength for long argument. "You wouldn't remember it now," he said, "as it's so long ago for you, but you—we—didn't always live in Narnia. We were born in a place called England. We came here as children, and grew up here. Eventually—it's the future for you, but the past for me—you and I and the girls will go back there and return to being the ages we were when we came to Narnia, and then we'll grow up again. I've been back in England for years now, going to school and trying to move on, but now somehow I've been sent back here to a time I've already experienced. Back to the first time I was twenty, instead of the second."

Edmund still stared silently at him for a minute, as he finished this explanation. "Then you're not the Peter who disappeared in battle this morning," he said hesitantly. "You're...his future self."

"As far as I know," Peter said. "I know it sounds strange."

"But then what happened when you were struck by the giant's axe?" Edmund asked. "You must remember."

"That's just it, I don't," Peter said. "I could remember riding towards the giant, but I never knew what happened afterwards. I remember we thought it was very strange, but we were distracted by giants amassing on the other side of the river and forgot to wonder much about what had happened."

"But you were all right," Edmund said.

Peter nodded. "I think I was injured, but I definitely survived the battle with the giant, if that's what you're worried about." He raised his eyes to meet Edmund's. "That _is_  what you're worried about, isn't it. Don't worry, the other me is fine. I just don't know where he—I—am."

"Well, if you know that all was well in your past, then I must assume all will be well this time around," Edmund said. He stepped closer. "Are you hurt?"

Peter had been trying to ignore the pain, but the reminder brought everything right back. "I've never been injured when coming into Narnia before," he said. "But this time I must have fallen heavily, because my ribs are all bruised and I think my wrist may be broken as well."

"And yet, you're certain that you're not the same Peter who lately rode up to a giant and fought him, sword against axe, in single combat?" Edmund asked. "For if you were, those injuries would be easily explained."

Peter frowned. "I don't—I don't see how I could be. I was in England, I'd been there for years, and all of a sudden I was on a grassy hillside. I came straight here as fast as I could, though it took most of the day."

"I suppose it matters little for the nonce," Edmund continued. "Whoever you are, you're still Peter, and thus you deserve access to Peter's room. I know there are bandages and unguents there, and you can obtain a change of clothing as well—unless you wish to continue running about in those strange things and have everyone from here to Beruna know that something has happened to you. There's already enough worry and instability with your strange absence, and we daren't give the rumors any further credence." He stepped forward and extended an arm, as Peter still didn't move. "You don't know where your room is, do you."

"It's been quite a few years since I was here," Peter said. "I'm still working on remembering the layout of the fort. Are we in the library?"

"Not that it's much of one, but yes," Edmund said. "Your room isn't far. Down this corridor, take the last door to the left, and it's two doors down that corridor, next to mine. Of course you disappeared before we arrived at the castle and assigned rooms, so you wouldn't have seen it yet, and your things are still packed, but the room awaits you." He put his arm around Peter's shoulders, carefully. "Come now, let me give you a hand."

Peter let Edmund take most of his weight. He vaguely remembered discussions of the air of Narnia, and how it could imbue strength that they had not possessed in England. Since Edmund had been here in Narnia for so much longer than Peter had, it seemed only fair to let him do more of the work. The corridor seemed interminable. Edmund had spoken of two corridors—were they in the first or the second? His wrist ached worse than ever, and each step on the hard stone shot pain through his ribs. Though he knew he wasn't exactly the same person whom Edmund had watched fight a giant earlier that day, he certainly felt as he thought a person might feel after fighting a giant.

"—are you hurt..."

Peter realized the dragging footsteps and hard stone had given way to something soft. "What?"

"I said, where are you hurt? You said ribs and wrist, is there anywhere else?"

Peter started to shake his head, but stopped when even that small movement jostled him too much. "Not that I know of. Of course, since I don't remember how I got hurt, there could be something I'm not aware of."

"Well, inform me if any of my ministrations provoke unknown injuries, and failing that, I'll see to the known ones," Edmund said. He retrieved a box of bandages from a closet near the door, and set to work.

Peter lay as still as he could, only moving when Edmund helped him to sit up so he could strap his ribs. "It's good to be in a bed finally," he said. "I've been reaggravating my injuries all day with my hiking; I could use some good sleep."

"I daresay," Edmund said, "and if that is what you must have, then you shall have it."

Peter turned his head to look at him. "And yet?"

"And yet," Edmund said with a sigh, "the High King's absence has already provoked division, even in a few short hours. Some fear for what your death would mean for Narnia, while I am afraid some others think of what they could gain from it." He sat down on the bed next to Peter, and sorted through the supplies in the box he held. "I suppose you wouldn't remember this, since it must seem so long ago for you, but there is a small gathering—a party of sorts, though not a particularly festive one—planned for this evening. We were accompanied on the journey up here by ambassadors from Archenland and Calormen. They wished for intelligence of the Ettinsmoor situtation, and as a gesture of our good faith, we allowed them to accompany us. But now the High King is missing, and whispers are spreading. Though both nations are on friendly terms with us, any ambassador worth his hire would be sure to take advantage of such a situation, in one way or another, whether it be mere whispers or the beginnings of plotting."

"So you think the High King had better put in an appearance tonight," Peter said.

"I'm afraid so." Edmund shut the box, and the lid dropped with a decisive click. "Here, let me take a look at your wrist now." He took Peter's right hand in his, and moved it gently this way and that. "We might say that you were found, but that you took injury and are laid up in bed—but no one will believe us unless they see you. Still, if you can stand a parade of well-wishers (and not-so-well-wishers) filing in and out of your room all evening, I will make your excuses for dinner."

"I'll go," Peter said firmly. He was the High King, and he knew his duty.

"You're sure?" Edmund said. "I don't think this is broken, unless what I've been doing hurts a lot more than you've let on."

"I'm sure," Peter said. "And no, it doesn't hurt any worse than it hurt before."

"I think a splint will be sufficient, then," Edmund said. "Although we could put your arm in a sling as well, if you prefer. It would make it easier for you to keep it still."

"I don't think I'll have either, yet," Peter said. "I've managed without a splint all day, just holding my arm still against my body. And if I'm to assure everyone that I am unharmed by the giant, shouldn't I appear actually unharmed?"

"They wouldn't begrudge you a sprained wrist, or even a broken bone or two, going up against a giant single-handed as you did," Edmund said. But he put the splint back in the box of bandages. "Do you want help dressing?"

Peter pushed himself off the side of the bed, and stood, supporting himself heavily with his good hand on the bedpost. "I suppose I'd better."

Edmund retrieved some clothes from a trunk at the side of the room. "You're lucky we planned for this to be an extended visit. If we had only meant to come here and back, you might not have even brought a change of clothes." He stood beside Peter, helping to guide the layers of clothing over his arms and legs, and taking his weight as needed. 

The leather jerkin hung loosely on Peter's frame. He must have had more muscles, back in these days of horse-riding and sword-fighting and other valorous deeds, than he had gained in his current life through running to class and writing papers and clerking at the stationer's in the afternoons and on weekends. He hoped that he might be able to stay here in Narnia, this one last time, long enough to enjoy those activities once again. But for now, more than ever, he regretted not taking advantage of the soft bed beside him. "Do we have anything to dull pain?" he asked. He rubbed his face. "It's only a few bruises and a sprain, I ought to be able to ignore them, but I'm finding it difficult."

"It's not just bruises; some of those were definitely cracked," Edmund said. "I'll have to see who's serving the wine, and if it's someone who can be trusted, I'll ask him to discreetly serve you the strongest wine we have."

Peter nodded. "I would appreciate that. Is there anything I ought to remember about our current relations with Archenland and Calormen?" They certainly were more friendly with Calormen at this time than they ought to be, but Peter supposed it would break some sort of rule of time travel to mention that. He resolved to spend most of his time speaking with the ambassador from Archenland, for at least that country he had unrelievedly pleasant memories of.

"Nothing in particular, assuming you remember at least the basics," Edmund said. "Lune is King in Archenland. He and his son Prince Corin paid a visit to us last year at Cair Paravel. Their kingdom continues to be a close friend to Narnia. Calormen is ruled by the Tisroc, descended from many other Tisrocs over the years despite all that may-he-live-forever rot. We are on friendly enough terms with them at present, but nowhere near as friendly as Archenland."

Peter nodded. That would have to be good enough.

"I'll sit next to you at dinner," Edmund said. He smiled slightly. "I can step on your foot if you like, if I think you need to turn the conversation to a less fraught topic." He packed the box of bandages away in the closet, and pushed Peter's English clothes to the very bottom of the trunk of Narnian clothes. "Ready to go?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," Peter said. The tight strapping on his ribs had eased the pain, but made it harder to take deep breaths. At least he wouldn't be exerting himself, simply sitting and talking. And as for his wrist—it would be too noticeable if he suddenly appeared to be left-handed, so he'd just have to make do somehow. He was glad he would have Edmund there with him, the one constant between his life in England and his old life here. He didn't know what he would do if he had to manage this all on his own.

 

His entrance into Narselm's small banqueting hall was, as might be expected, marked by every single creature present. For a few minutes, Peter was surrounded by well-wishers, all congratulating him on his survival and asking questions about the giant. Peter thanked them for their good wishes, and credited Aslan for his escape from the giant, but gave no details. If the conversation at dinner remained this simple, he wouldn't even have to remember who everyone was in order to hold up his side of the conversation. But thankfully, he found that he remembered nearly all the faces, and could attach names to more than half of them. Few of the court and none of their chief advisors had accompanied them here, but there were still several creatures of whom he had fond memories, even all these years later, and he smiled despite the pain, at the joy of being back in Narnia among friends. The next second, a dwarf jogged his right arm in the press, and he winced despite the joy, for the pain was too much. "Shall we all take our seats now?" he said in a tone of pronouncement, and they all did as he said, for he was the High King.

Edmund had disappeared somewhere (Peter hoped he had been off to the kitchens arranging for the wine), but he slipped in and took the seat at Peter's right hand in the midst of the bustle of everyone taking their seats, and Peter doubted that his absence had been noticed. He turned to his left, where sat the ambassador of Archenland. "And how was the weather in Anvard, when last you saw it?" he asked. He recalled nothing of what he had spoken to the ambassador about in the preceding days, so long ago for him but so recent for the ambassador; hopefully they hadn't found reason to discuss the weather yet.

From the weather in Anvard, their conversation moved on to the latest repairs to the Castle of Anvard, and a discussion of the relative merits of different types of stone when replacing parts of existing walls versus shoring them up. The Calormene ambassador, seated at Edmund's right, joined in with a few criticisms of northern stone, but Edmund changed the subject back to their respective countries' weather, which the Calormene (notwithstanding he lived in a desert) was willing to extol at length.

Once the conversation was well established, Peter let the other three talk, while he did his best to eat without straining his right wrist, and let his thoughts drift. The wine had certainly taken the edge off the pain, but it was also making him sleepy. The bed upstairs had been terribly soft. He wondered where his other self, the Peter who ought to have been here, had got to. Was he injured, as well? Was he all alone? The ambassador from Archenland asked Peter something about the weather back in Cair Paravel; Peter said something noncommittal about how nice it had been, and hoped there hadn't been a storm he didn't recall or anything. What had become of the paper he'd written? Even if, as seemed likely from past experiences, whenever he returned to England he arrived at the same time he had left, with time to run to class, it would do him little good if he didn't have with him the paper he'd been about to turn in. He'd carried his schoolbag all the way down the valley; had he left it in the library, or was it somewhere in the bedroom? The ambassador from Calormen had turned an inquisitive face towards Peter, and Peter realized he had no idea what had been said over the last few minutes. Were they still speaking of weather? He took a bite of venison, to give himself time to think.

"I don't know about Peter, but for my part, I should very much like to see Calormen someday," Edmund said. "I have traveled little outside of Narnia, and I should greatly like to see more of the world."

Peter swallowed the venison and took a sip of wine. "An admirable aim, brother," he said. "For my part, my heart is here in Narnia and I know not if I shall ever leave it." The words pained him to say, knowing as he did that he would soon leave here forever. Or would he? Perhaps he was here to replace his old self, never returning to the England he had left, but living here for years to come. Poor Edmund would be left all alone in their flat, wondering what had happened to him, never to see either Peter or Narnia again. Edmund would be little able to afford the rent on the flat and his school fees all on his own, Peter knew. He winced guiltily.

"You should retire early, after your eventful day, brother," Edmund said, laying a hand high on his arm, where it would not jog his sprained wrist. "It has been a splendid feast, has it not?"

The ambassadors agreed that it was so. Peter pushed himself to his feet, and, leaning heavily against the table with his good hand clutching it for support, he raised the wineglass in his other hand and proclaimed the final toast: "To Aslan!" All the creatures echoed him, and while the glasses had scarcely left their lips, Peter was already hurrying out of the room, Edmund in his wake.

He had reached the base of the stairs before he realized that he still had the wineglass clutched in his hand. Edmund took it gently away from him and set it at the base of a nearby pillar. "I thought that went rather well," Edmund said. He continued saying something else, but there was a buzzing in Peter's ears that was getting louder and louder, so that he could hear nothing else. The room began to spin, and then the floor was growing closer, and closer still.

Suddenly, the floor stopped moving, about a foot or two away from his face. His ribs ached from the movement. He realized someone was saying his name repeatedly. "Mmmm?" he replied. The buzzing receded slowly, but his head still pounded.

"You've made your appearance, it's time you were in bed," Edmund said. "Can you get up, or shall I carry you?"

Peter blinked a few times. He didn't remember falling, but it was the only thing that explained why he was suddenly kneeling on the cold stone at the foot of the stairs. Edmund was kneeling next to him, his arms wrapped around Peter's chest. "Yes, that was definitely a long enough appearance," Peter mumbled. "Help me stand?" He put his good arm around Edmund's shoulders, and let Edmund hoist him to his feet.

Edmund looked doubtfully at him. "If you change your mind and want me to carry you, just say so."

Peter nodded, concentrating his thoughts on putting one foot in front of the other and not falling again. Edmund kept hold of the arm that Peter had put about his shoulders—not that Peter had any wish to withdraw it, seeing as it was probably the only thing keeping him upright—and as they climbed the stairs, Peter leaned more and more of his weight on him. But at least he was still on his own two feet. If anyone came across them in the corridors, it would be less worrisome for them to see him like this than to see him limply carried, perhaps not even obviously conscious at first glance. He wished he knew how he had been injured, and whether his other self was all right. "They all think I fought a giant," he mumbled. "You'd think I'd remember fighting a giant." The corridor seemed just as interminable as it had earlier. It was such a small fort; how could its passages extend for hours and miles?

"At least you're not wearing armor," Edmund said. Peter realized they were standing by a door. He leaned against the wall, doing his best to keep his knees steady and not fall over, now that Edmund had let go of him to fumble with the key. As simple as it sounded, staying upright was one of the most difficult things he had done yet that day. If it had been much longer, he didn't think he would have managed it; but then Edmund had the door unlocked and had taken his weight again, half-marching and half-dragging him across the room to the bed.

"Thanks," Peter mumbled as he lay finally on the soft bed. He didn't bother to try to get undressed, once Edmund had helped him off with his boots, but slid under the covers fully dressed. He ached all over and his head throbbed. "I'm sorry I didn't hold up my part of the conversation at dinner," he said.

"You did well enough," Edmund said. He was staring out the window.

"I'm glad you were there," Peter added.

Edmund still gazed out the window, then roused himself with a start. "I have to go," he said. At the door, he turned back as suddenly as he had gone. "Do you need anything first?"

He had meant to splint his wrist now that he didn't need to hide his injury, but if it had gone this long without, it could go longer, and Edmund obviously wished to be elsewhere. "No, that's all right."

Edmund nodded, and shut the door behind him. Peter stared at the door for a long time. Just as he had started to feel a bit more at home here in the past, Edmund had to go and do something unexpected. Was it his memory of this Edmund—different and yet the same as the one who lived in the next room of the flat and made breakfast more mornings than Peter ever managed to—that was at fault? And if that memory was faulty, what other of his memories of Narnia in the Golden Age were also faulty and would catch him out if he continued here?

Before he could muse too long on this note, he fell into a restless sleep, full of laughing ambassadors, and creatures whose names he felt he ought to know and yet never quite could. And then there was the giant. Two-headed and glaring, as Edmund had described him. Peter raised his sword to strike at one of the heads, and then the giant's axe was crashing down upon him. The typewriter lay next to him in pieces; the axe must have struck it as well. Now he'd never be able to retype his paper, and he still didn't know where the copy he'd brought into Narnia had got to. Perhaps the giant would know.

He woke suddenly and sat up, coughing from the tightness in his strapped ribs. Above him, the giant loomed, axe in hand. "Peter!" it said.

Peter coughed some more. The giant lit the lamp, and turned out to be Edmund, wearing the same clothes from earlier, but a bit damp and muddy now. He handed Peter a cup of water, which he drank slowly. He blinked a few times, and finally his eyes adjusted to the light. He hadn't imagined everything he'd seen—or else, he was still dreaming and imagining even now. For in one hand, Edmund held an axe that towered above his head: the sort of axe that no human would wield, but a giant might.

"I apologize if I startled you," Edmund said. "I have found the axe that the giant used to strike at you. That is, not _you_ , exactly, but maybe it was." He sat down on the side of the bed. "I suppose it's my turn to explain."

"You still think the attack on the Peter who ought to be here——wherever he is—had something to do with my injuries?" Peter asked.

"Exactly. 'Tis said the giants have some small magic to themselves, different from any other magic known in Narnia or any other country. It seems no foolish assumption to think that perhaps this weapon carries some of that magic."

"So what does their magic do?"

"Nobody knows, except it be the giants themselves," Edmund said. "But I had an idea. You said that you were older, and then you were young again when you went back to—wherever it was you said we came from. What if the magic of the axe was confused by that, and split whatever damage it did between you, and, well, the other you."

"If that's so, where's the other me?" Peter asked. _Did I survive?_ he didn't ask.

"I can't be certain, but I thought—if you ended up here, then perhaps _he_  ended up wherever you came from."

Peter winced. "In a rundown third-floor flat? That would have been quite the place to find myself when I'd thought I was about being killed by a giant." He reached out to touch the axe that Edmund still held. "So how do I get back to—"

The room spun briefly, as his hand was still settling on the cold metal. For a moment, he saw double. Then the spinning stopped, and yet there still seemed to be too many people in the room.

"Peter?"

"Edmund!"

"You figured it out, then? It's something to do with the axe, isn't it? We thought it might, but we didn't have any way to get access to the axe and test the theory."

Definitely too many people. Peter blinked a few more times, then realizing he was staring at himself. A very, very injured version of himself, with bandages on both arms and blood on his face. If the axe had split their injuries between the two of them—and from their very presence here, it seemed clear that the axe had some sort of magic, so presumably that was indeed the case—it hadn't split them very evenly. Of course, _that_  Peter was the one who had decided to charge headlong at a giant several times as big as himself, so perhaps the current division of injuries was fair. Peter pushed himself to sit up further.

The Edmund in English clothes stepped forward. "I'm glad you're all right, Peter," he said. "Peter and I didn't know what to think when he showed up in a heap next to the dustbins. I knew he would be all right once he explained what year it was and that he'd been fighting the giants, but I didn't know if _you_  would be. I never remembered how we managed to win that battle, and I thought how horrible it would be if you'd accidentally gotten your future self killed and didn't know it."

"Not killed, but a bit banged up," Peter said, presenting his swollen wrist as evidence. "It's worth it, though, to save my life in the past. Thanks for patching me up, both now, and in the past even though you probably don't remember doing so."

" _I_  remember," the other Edmund said. He was still holding the axe. "And you're welcome."

"So how are we going to get home?" asked the Edmund who had just come through from England.

"You appeared when both of us touched the giant's axe," Peter said. "Ed—not you, I mean—well, you know what I mean—thought that the axe had some sort of magic, unlike any other magic in Narnia. We may not know all the rules to the giant's magic, but we can guess from what evidence we do have before us."

"So you think both of us should grab on to the axe, too?" English Edmund stepped forward, hand outstretched.

"No—" the other Peter exclaimed. "We should both take hold of it at the same instant." He shuffled forward, arm pressed to his side.

Narnian Edmund hefted the axe, and balanced it across his knees and the bed so that there was plenty of room for them all to grab hold. "Best of luck to you all," he said, "and try to stay away from giants."

"Same to you," Peter told him. "And put that axe somewhere where it won't hurt anybody."

"I will, if I remember," he replied. "You said you had no memory of what had happened, so perhaps I will forget this meeting. I would be most sorry to forget it, for this has been very interesting. I hope your injuries heal well."

"Thank you," Peter said. "You're probably right; I remember something about an axe but nothing of what came before. It's probably more of the giants' magic."

"One last handshake all round, then, if this is the last time all of us will all see each other," English Edmund said. "I must say, it's nice to be back in Narnia one more time, even if this is all I'll see of it." Belying his comment about the handshakes, he wandered away from the others, over to the window. "Is that the Ettinsmoor? Then that must be the River Shribble. I'd rather gaze at Narnia, but this view is better than nothing."

"A hard won view," Peter said. "I got to see a beautiful Narnian valley, but only because I was hiking down it while injured, so I think you're getting the better end of the bargain." He pushed himself, finally, to his feet, though he still clung to the bedpost. "Well, we'd best be on our way and leave this bed for the use of my other self."

"I must admit, I will be glad of it," said the other Peter.

"And make sure you stay in it," English Edmund said. He turned to his Narnian counterpart. "I've bandaged and splinted everything I could, but you should check the bandages later; he took quite the blow from that giant."

"I will," Narnian Edmund said. "Now, on the count of three?"

They all counted together, and on three, Peter reached out with the others. He was never quite sure if he had actually felt the slick cold metal of the axe below his fingertips before it was slipping away, and there was nothing again.

"You're lucky I've already got the first-aid kit out from earlier," Edmund said from somewhere above him.

Peter rolled over slowly. He ached all over. He didn't remember falling or landing this time any more than he had that morning, but here he was on the kitchen floor of their flat, so he must have landed somehow.

"You'd best take the couch, if you can walk there," Edmund continued. "You were just there, in a manner of speaking. Seems like I've spent all day patching you up."

"I'm sorry you didn't get to spend the day in Narnia with me," Peter told him. "If it had been my choice, I would have brought you along. Though if one has to be injured to visit after one's time, perhaps it's not worth it."

"Not being currently injured, I'm not particularly qualified to speak on that point, but I certainly think it's worth it," Edmund said. "I'd never thought the Ettinsmoor so beautiful before."

"You know, somehow I never even got a glimpse of it," Peter said. "I approached the fort from the south, and never looked beyond it." He pushed himself slowly to his feet, and let Edmund lead him to the couch.

"At least you haven't lost a lot of blood like your other self did, but you really ought to get a splint on that wrist," Edmund commented. "Here, sit down, and I'll see to it."

It was strange, the mixture of longing and thankfulness Peter felt as he sat there, watching Edmund tend to his wrist. The quiet ever present longing for Narnia that he had had for the last six years of his life was stronger than ever, now that he had been there again and breathed its air; and yet he was more certain than ever that he would never set foot there again. But at the same time—he remembered Edmund's care and gentle kindness as he had borne him through the fort and bound his wounds, and yet he did not miss Edmund at all. He was right here in front of him, just as caring and dependable as before, and he didn't have to go all the way back to Narnia to find him.


End file.
